


System Instability

by Vrunka



Series: Deviant [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, PWP, wire-play, with a Ken-doll crotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: If Hank is doing this—and Hank is, most certainly, doing this—then he’s gonna make sure it’s more fair than last time.





	System Instability

**Author's Note:**

> I...wasn’t gonna write this but then you all fucking BROUGHT it with comments and love kudos and I just...I mean I had to. It was nagging at me anyway. So now, here it is. 
> 
> Part two. Aka Connor is gonna get some.
> 
> Robot genitalia ahead and it’s...I don’t even know. I think it’s weird and I wrote it so, you’ve been warned.

Sleeping with Connor was probably a mistake.

Sober now, squished between Connor’s surprisingly heavy form and Sumo’s ridiculous fluff, Hank is more than willing to admit it. But he’s always been weak when it comes to strays. Always had something of a soft spot in the armor when it comes to puppy eyes.

And dimples.

Why would they program the robot with fuckin’ dimples?

Hank sniffs, stretches as much as he can, which isn’t much. His arm is asleep under Sumo’s head, doggy drool gathering in the crease of his elbow. Connor’s hand tightens just slightly on his hip.

“You sleep okay, Hank,” he asks. Innocently. Blaise. Like they’re meeting at work and not waking up after...after whatever that was last night.

Hank swallows. He nods. Turns his head to glance over his shoulder at where Connor is still spooning him. It’d be embarrassing if he didn’t vividly remember all the more frankly mortifying acts from yesterday.

Connor’s lips quirk into a smile. And there at that apple of his cheek, just below one damning and distracting freckle, that tiny dimple. Boyish and innocent. Which is probably why they built it into him. He’s supposed to be easy to trust. Not that it really matters what CyberLife had planned.

Connor has become his own person. Has grown into something, someone Hank admires. Trusted enough to let him get this close.

Devious bastard.

“I have to piss,” Hank says. Flatly. Mostly to see Connor’s LED flicker yellow with annoyance, lips dropping into a pout. Hank grins. Turns just enough to cup Connor’s perpetually smooth jaw. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

Sumo picks his head up at Hank’s voice. Their familiar morning routine. The floor creaks as his big body bounds onto it, his clumsy trot toward the kitchen to await breakfast.

Hank follows. Scratches his belly as he goes. He doesn’t remember actually removing his shirt last night, so Connor must have moved him in his sleep. Fixed his boxers back on too, which is something. Efficient.

Hank doesn’t bother to close the door as he pees. He watches Connor watching him from the bedroom. No shame. Not even trying to hide that he’s observing. It should be off-putting, would be, probably if Connor were human. If Connor were human...but he is sort of, isn’t he? That’s the whole point of this revolution.

It’s a tangled knot of existential questions that are a whole lot more than Hank can cope with at the moment. Connor is Connor, the watching does not bother him the way that it should. 

Hank sniffs. Shakes his dick before tucking it back into his boxers. Flushes and turns to wash his hands. Normally he wouldn’t, but the pressure of Connor watching him is...well it’s just that. Pressure.

He doesn’t need the lecture on hygiene, thanks.

Sumo barks at him from the kitchen, impatient. Hank isn’t exactly sure what time it is, but he has a feeling it’s later than usual. Slept like the dead swaddled in Connor’s arms. Fucking ridiculous.

He makes a token nod at brushing his teeth, wet brush, tiny dollop of toothpaste. Sumo barks at him again. Hank hurries it up.

“Okay, okay,” he says as he rounds the corner and Sumo jams his cold nose against Hank’s uncovered stomach. “Jeeze, you animal, I’m feeding you.” He barely has the bowl on the floor before Sumo is scarfing it down. Eating too quickly. Something ravenous in the motion.

The little digital reader above the microwave claims it’s almost one. Jesus fuck, it’s been a while since he slept in so late. Hank blows a breath between his teeth. Thinks about Connor, holding him, moving his limbs to pull his shirt off sometime in the night. Connor’s head against his back. Connor’s simulated breathing.

Damn it, damn it.

He needs coffee. Everything seems easier to tackle once he’s had that.

Hank turns the pot on. It’s an outdated model, but hell if it doesn’t make better coffee than the new age tech at the precinct. He taps his nail against the small orange indicator light, watches the thin skin of his fingertip turn red.

“Hey I’m makin’ a—“ he starts to yell. Craning back to peer toward the bedroom. Halfway through he remembers who he is talking to. The words die on his tongue.

Connor, bed-headed, barefoot rounds the corner into the kitchen. “Making?”

“Uhh. A pot of coffee.”

Connor licks his lips. Looks from Hank’s hands up to his neck up to his face. “Oh,” he says, “right.”

“Sorry. I uhh. Normally I’d offer you a mug, but you can’t drink this shit so...So I don’t know why I’m telling you.”

“It’s okay, Hank, it’s nice, being included in your routine.”

“Hardly routine. Last one night stand I offered coffee to was way before my marriage.”

“A one night stand, huh?”

“You know what I mean. It’s just weird for-for a lotta reasons.”

Connor stills. His eyes narrow. Hank doesn’t need to see the flashing red of Connor’s LED to understand that it was the wrong thing to say. Connor’s body language is transparent as any human’s would be.

“Are you regretting it?” Connor asks. No, he doesn’t ask it. He bleeds it. Normally so stiff, despite the dollars poured into making him as close to human as possible, there is always something formal in the way he talks. But this...this is ripped from him. Raw and organic and beating.

That he could be a mistake.

That letting him close was a mistake.

The surge of guilt Hank feels is barbed, leaves him feeling as gutted as Connor sounds.

“I assure you, it’s fine if you are,” Connor is saying. Eyes downcast, staring down at the floor. “I should never have—“

“Hey,” Hank says. Voice a little gruffer than he means. Connor meets his gaze. “I don’t,” Hank says. “I couldn’t. Okay?”

He couldn’t. Not in a million years could he actually claim to regret what has happened between them. Not a step of it. Not one single goddamn part. He should, rationally, he knows that. But he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” he continues, “I just meant that it’s been a while since I had to think about this stuff. And then...then it doesn’t even matter cuz you’re...well you’re all different stuff aren’t you?”

Connor grins, his shoulders relax. His toes curl on the linoleum floor, Hank swears he can hear the joints pop, loosening as Connor shifts from foot to foot.

“I suppose I am. I’m getting used to it too, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.” Hank taps his fingers against the counter. The coffee pot bubbles, percolating. Filling the silence. Hank breathes through his nose. “You wanna talk about it?”

“About?”

“I dunno. The whole thing. What happened after you uhh. I mean I saw you at the warehouse but we didn’t really get the chance to talk. I never thought you’d go deviant. That guy on the news, Markus, he must have really said some powerful stuff, huh?”

Connor seems to consider it. Leans back against the counter. One hand idly stroking the fur on Sumo’s back as the dog finishes up his breakfast. Connor has unbuttoned his shirt further since last night, only the bottom two are still hooked. Pretty silly, all things considered. Casually arousing. Hank can see the smooth skin of his chest, the way it stretches slightly as he moves his arm. The hint of a nipple, only just hidden by the fall of the fabric. They built him with goddamn nipples.

Hank looks away. Scratches his nose.

“Do you really think it was him that changed my mind?” Connor asks. He tilts his head. His eyes narrowing again.

“You’re gonna say it was me?”

“Of course it was you, Lieutenant. I’ve...ever since we’ve met I’ve strived to be what you would want. Who you would want.”

Hank stiffens, breath catching in his throat.

Because Connor is Connor and he just says shit like that. Hank has gotten somewhat used to it but still...still. He blushes, he can feel the burn of his own cheeks at the admission, Connor’s straightforward way of shooting. He covers his eyes with one hand, pinches the bridge of his nose.

Connor’s fingers touch his chest. Inquisitive. Soft. Pressing right over his sternum. “You’re heart rate has increased. Do you like hearing me say it? You’re important to me, Hank. You’re the most important thing that there is to me.”

Hank catches Connor’s wrist. He opens his eyes. “God, stop it,” he says. “It’s not fair that you can use your scanners to—You’re a dirty cheat, you know that?”

Connor smiles. Perfect. Hank is still a little rocked that Connor has any real interest in him. It’s hard to believe. So far outside Hank’s scope of possibility. Six months ago, his forecast for his own future would have been still working the precinct, drunk more often than not or maybe even dead—everyone loses eventually at Russian Roulette. He would have laughed in the face of anyone that told him an android would change his whole outlook.

Would have punched the guy who dared to insinuate he’d let that said same android suck him off.

But here they are.

“I’m simply using all the tools at my disposal,” Connor says. “I was built for this sort of interaction, after all. High tension scenarios.”

His fingers flex. Hank can feel the movement of them in Connor’s wrist, the machine beneath the skin. Not much more than wheels and wires and pulleys.

“This what you’d call a tense scenario, Connor?” Hank asks. Voice dropping. Unintentional.

Connor’s LED sparks yellow, round and round it goes. Hank licks his lips, glances from it back down to Connor’s eyes. Two can play dirty; Connor has his own tells, much as he may still posture as perfect little android.

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. Your bio signs lead me to believe you’re on edge. Increased respiration. Sweat on your neck. Pupils dilated. You keep looking at my chest,” Connor pauses, looks down himself, then back up with a grin. “Do you like what you see? Do you want to see more?”

Hank groans. Uses his grip on Connor’s wrist to pull the other man fully against him, turning them so Connor is trapped between his body and the counter. One of Connor’s legs is in between his own, Connor’s free hand clutching at his neck.

Their lips hover. Not quite touching. Hank knows about the sensors—the conversation had to happen after he caught Connor licking blue blood off his fingers at the second crime scene they visited, and Hank thinks it’s fucking gross, for the record—so he hesitates. Unsure.

Connor’s LED is flashing so quickly it almost matches Hank’s pulse. Running overdrive in his throat, behind his eyes. Hot and dry. God God God how did he end up this deep?

“What are you waiting for,” Connor asks, finally. Voice cracking just a little bit. Unmodulated. Emotion, real emotion. “Hank...I...”

Hank kisses him. Firmly. Chaste. With his eyes closed and his heart pattering uselessly in his chest. Connor moves inexpertly beneath him, pressing up on the balls of his feet to keep his mouth as close to Hank’s as possible.

That same raw desperation he had shown last night, mouthing his way across Hank’s dick.

Touch-starved. Virginal.

Dirty thoughts from a dirty old man; teen wet-dream fantasies that are far too inappropriate for a man Hank’s age.

His fingers twitch, squeezing Connor’s wrist a little too hard. He can feel the plastic shift within his grip. Maybe Connor can feel it too, he hisses against Hank’s mouth, opens his lips, arches against him.

“Hank,” he says. “Let me...let me in. Let me taste you.”

Which is not something Hank would have ever thought he would find arousing, but there that is too. This level of cheesy shit is where Hank turns the video off. But Connor whining like he’s in a porn, begging, saying such things is fucking hot. Maybe because it’s delivered without a shred of irony, one hundred percent conviction.

Hank presses their mouths together again, letting Connor’s tongue slide between his lips. It’s not a good kiss, sloppy, inexperienced, but Hank’s gut tightens at the filthiness of it all the same.

Connor’s Thirium spit tastes odd, inorganic. Leaves Hank’s mouth feeling coated. Like toothpaste residue. Not wholly displeasing but certainly weird. Hank breaks away from the kiss enough to shudder a breath against Connor’s cheek.

Behind Connor, the coffee maker beeps cheerily. It’s liquid energy ready for consumption. Hank sighs against Connor’s skin.

For a moment, they just stay there, unmoving. The machine beeps and beeps. It’s actually Connor who breaks away first, knocking a knee against Hank’s, untangling himself enough to slip free of Hank’s weight.

He’s touching his lips, running his fingers over them. His LED slows, showing white again. Calmed somewhat from their madness.

“Drink your coffee, Hank. I should...”

Hank can feel the way Connor searches for an end to that sentence. Usually so composed but here he is, visibly flustered. Hank would feel smug if he weren’t in the same fucking boat. Breathless from making out, gut tight with anticipation.

“I’m sure there are productive things we need to do today,” Connor says. “Work or...”

“I’m suspended, remember? Punching Perkins sorta landed me on Fowler’s shit-list.”

Connor twitches. His tongue darts out, pink, dragging over his lips, quick, quick. “Right. I never thanked you for that...distraction. You put a lot on the line for me.”

“You say that like you haven’t,” Hank says. He reaches out again, runs a thumb along the soft swell of Connor’s cheek. Skin catching at the corner of Connor’s lips. “Guess we’re both in pretty deep, huh?”

“In?”

“Jesus, Connor, you’re gonna make me say this too?”

Connor blinks. Completely guileless. Innocent. All those dirty words cropping up again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hank.”

Hank bites his lip. Squeezes his eyes shut. “That I...God I guess I...” His eyes open.

Connor is grinning. Devious bastard. He tries to hide it when he realizes Hank is looking at him again. His lips twitch back down into that slightly puzzled frown. Fucking cheater.

“That I think you’re a son of a bitch, Connor. Real smartass little shit.”

Connor smiles. Tilts his head. His hair falls over his forehead, messier than his usual style, that one Clark Kent curl. Hank isn’t sure whether it’s something he has control over or not. He brushes it back regardless, steps closer so he can lean their faces together.

Connor’s hands are steady on his shoulder, his upper arm. Fingers curling around his bicep. Hank can feel the inner pulse of each individual joint. All the little parts that make up the greater whole. Connor’s eyes are open, watching him. Hank wonders idly if they were open during the earlier kissing, recording everything cuz he’s a dirty little perv.

“Wanna tell me how I should touch you,” Hank asks.

Connor’s pupils contract, rapidly, his LED flickering, flickering. “Your coffee,” he starts to say.

“Can wait.”

“It’ll get cold.”

“Connor,” Hank drawls. He grazes a knuckle down Connor’s throat. It moves beneath his hand, trembles in a way that feels more human than it is. Connor’s slim Adam’s apple bobbing with his fake inhaling. Swallowing nothing.

Connor bites his lips. The skin doesn’t go pink or swell the way organic skin would. Hank rubs his thumb against it, feeling the moisture from Connor’s teeth. Just a little thicker than spit.

“Hank.”

“If you don’t want me to—“

“I do want you to! I do. I’m just...I don’t know. You don’t have to feel like you have to.”

“You’re nervous?” Hank asks. An upswing to his tone he can’t quite quash even if Connor being nervous isn’t funny in the least. Horny and self-conscious, what an unfortunately pubescent mix.

“By all definitions of the word, I mean, yes I suppose I am. I don’t...” Connor swallows. His face folding into a frown. “I just-just. You liked what we did yesterday. You came to orgasm—“ Hank groans, flinching, but Connor just barrels on the way he always does. “It was good. We can keep doing that.”

“We could; but I want to try this.”

Connor’s light goes yellow again, flickering so quickly it’s a wonder he doesn’t overheat. Shut down from stress or something. “You do?”

He sounds so innocent again. Earnest. Ploy or no, Hank gives in this time. “Yeah, Connor,” he says. “Jesus, never thought I’d actually...actually want to but yeah. Yes. More than anything.”

Connor stiffens. His eyes fall to stare at Hank’s collar. The joints in his fingers twitch. Little motors going and going. “What if I don’t...don’t do it right. I’m confident that I can learn, Lieutenant, don’t get me wrong but I...I want it to be perf—“

“Nobody’s perfect, Connor. It’s part of being...”

It’s part of being human.

Comes with the territory.

Hank huffs the end of the sentence away. Rolls his eyes. Uncomfortable with the frank intimacy of saying something so goddamn cliche. “Look,” he says instead, “it can’t be worse than coming too quickly, right? You’ll have the one-up on me no matter what.”

Connor grins. “I like that you came so quickly,” he says. “This is not a skill set I was programmed with, you know, so it was reassuring.”

Hank snorts. “Leave it to you to find the pragmatic way of looking at it, sure.”

“CyberLife intended for me to be—“

“Are we really talking about this right now, Connor?” Hank asks. Fondness thickening his tone again, stopping Connor before he can go too far into his rant about uses and programming and all that technical bullshit. He’s come such a long way to accepting his own humanity, but the android stuff is still all there. Much as Hank finds it endearing, he has a goal here.

“I mean I guess not.” Connor swallows. His eyes are fixed on where his own hands are curled around Hank’s arms. Hank isn’t sure what all he sees. Old man skin, a life with scars, with age spots, wrinkles. Alcoholism and suicide and baggage baggage. God Connor could do so much better than him. Should do so much better.

But Hank is weak.

Puppy-eyes. Strays. Little homeless things.

“Would you kiss me again, Hank?” Connor says. “I like kissing I think. Made me feel...feel...”

“Feel what?”

“Fluttery. Nervous. Jitters,” Connor lists after a moment of mulling it over. “Frankly uncomfortable, if you must know. Vulnerable.”

“Yeah that comes with the territory too,” Hank says.

Connor blinks. Presses closer. The light on his temple is still neutral, spinning slowly. Hank kisses him, lingering, close-lipped, exhaling through his nose. Sharing air that Connor doesn’t need. But he has aligned their breathing, something he’s done a couple of times now, matching the rise and fall of Hank’s chest with his own. It’s calming; Hank isn’t sure which of them it’s meant to assure, but it works all the same.

“Let’s go to my room,” Hank says. Sliding his hand, palm down, under the tickling hem of Connor’s shirt. Synthetic skin warm, humming against his flesh. “The kitchen is kinky and all but...”

Connor grins, his stomach trembles. “Are you particularly kinky, Hank? Is that something that interests you? I can make note of it, if you’d like. Find inspiration for future encounters.”

“God, shut the fuck up, Connor.”

“Would you like to gag me? That is certainly something that would—“

Hank’s fingers curl, nails scratching lightly at the skin, the fake muscles. He pushes the shirt off Connor’s shoulders. Those two final buttons only hold for a second before popping clean off. One pings against the counter, a sharp retort that has Sumo looking over from where he has settled across the room. He’ll need to go out soon, it’s a wonder he isn’t already begging at the door, the timing for this is all wrong. Completely off.

But desire is a downward slope and its been so long and Hank wants it wants it wants it.

He has a favor to return.

He doesn’t like having debts.

Connor’s too heavy for him to carry into the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean Hank doesn’t do a damn fine job herding him there. Their legs tangling, hips colliding, both sets of hands gripping and grabbing and holding, holding tight. Hank can already feel bruises forming on his shoulders, a dull ache in the skin; Connor, stronger than he realizes.

It’s fine.

It’s good.

It’s sobering.

Hank kicks the door closed as they go, the two of them locked in one another, tumbling past it. It rattles in the frame when Connor uses that same leverage to push the two of them back against it. He’s nipping at Hank’s mouth as he does so. Just the hint of teeth, scraping over Hank’s chapped lips and Hank’s beard and Hank’s chin.

The button and the zipper of Connor’s trousers have been pulled open and though Hank knows he must have done it, he can’t exactly remember the specifics. He runs his fingers across the revealed skin, soft and smooth as the rest of him.

Plastic perfect.

Not a hair anywhere on his body below his eyebrows. Teen wet-dream fantasy indeed. A Maxim spread. A little off-putting except for the fact that it’s Connor and Hank seems unable to be truly concerned or turned off by anything when it comes to him.

Hank rakes his nails up to Connor’s belly button—another wholly aesthetic and questionable choice, nipples and dimples and belly buttons, why not?—and Connor shudders into his grip. A moan stuttering against Hank’s mouth. Trapped between the two of them.

“That feel good,” Hank asks.

Truly curious. This uncharted territory for the both of them.

“I...yes? It’s like...tight?” Connor says. The word comes out like it isn’t the one he wants. An upswing that makes it a question. He’s practically a walking dictionary; the internet a thought away in his literal computer brain, and here he is, flustered enough to be less than eloquent.

It’s flattering.

Hank does it again, just to hear the sounds Connor makes at the touch.

“Get these off,” Hank says, pulling at the waistband of Connor’s trousers. Connor isn’t wearing anything beneath them and Hank wants to say something smug and self-assured but he can’t seem to find the words he wants under the thrill of watching Connor follow his orders.

Connor’s eyes are kind of glassy and big as he steps away from Hank and the door, as he tugs his jeans off. His light is yellow again, nerves or arousal Hank isn’t sure which. Connor’s feet curl on the carpet, Hank watches them for a moment, yet another idle motion that Connor has had since before he went officially deviant. Hank drags his gaze up Connor’s legs, skinny, thinly muscled.

His stomach is flat, not chiseled or ripped or overly-toned. Skinny but not lanky. They built him to be hot; it’s another question Hank files away for if he ever has the misfortune of meeting Kamski again.

They built Connor to be hot...except for his crotch.

Like it was overlooked in production. Smooth and flat from below his belly button to...to where he just ends. An almost feminine curve between his legs. Barren space between his sharp hip bones.

Hank spreads his hand to press it flat against that plane of skin. Trembling beneath his palm.

Connor bites his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says. He swallows. Whatever it is beneath where Hank is touching—routine systems or bio components or some shit—twitches, hard enough Hank can feel the echo of it in his fingers. “You look disappointed. I should have thought to warn you that I don’t come equipped with any sort—“

“Connor, just be quiet.” Hank drags his finger over to Connor’s hip, curls his nail to trace the jut of plastic bone. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. It’s like you said last night, right? I want to show you my feelings for you, okay?”

Connor’s shoulders shift. His hands drift to touch Hank’s neck, fingers just tickling at the edges of his beard. “I believe what I actually said was ‘I want to express my feelings in the way my new scope will allow’ but your paraphrasing is acceptable, I suppose.”

Hank rolls his eyes. Huffs. “You’re a pedantic little prick. How’s that for paraphrasing?” He grins as he says it, walking the two of them back toward the bed.

“That’s probably fair,” Connor concedes. His legs shift apart as he sits at the edge of the bed. Hank runs his fingers through his hair, tugs the strands lightly, testing Connor’s reactions to it.

Watching the way Connor sits up straighter. The way he leans into the grip. Hank has the brief, paralyzing image of Connor below him, on his knees, spine arching, Hank’s hand sunk in his hair just like this, fucking into him like a dog, like an animal panting and sweating and—

Hank groans. His knees ache as he lowers himself onto them, little echoes that will become more painful as this goes on. Jesus Christ, he’s getting so old, over the hill and it only gets worse. But he’s determined to this. To do this for Connor. For Connor.

He kisses at Connor’s knee, soft and careful. There is a tight knot of anxiety in his gut, the same he had felt last night. Letting Connor so close recklessly will be the end of him. He can’t lose any more family, can’t afford to. Won’t afford to. He’ll rig the game; stock the fucking gun with six shots, it won’t be passive in any sense of the word.

Connor’s fingers card through his hair, follow the line of his jaw past his ear and down into his beard.

“Your heart rate has spiked again,” Connor says.

“Yeah. I’m just...”

Hank doesn’t have a way to finish that thought. He’s just thinking too much, thinking too deeply. Letting the sadness get its hooks in again. Here Connor is, naked and vulnerable beneath him and he’s thinking about suicide. Thinking about the end between the two of them that isn’t even a guarantee. That there’s no use in circling, in dwelling on.

Whatever happens, happens.

—it should go without saying that with our intervention things will certainly—

Hank shuts his eyes. Connor’s voice echoing so clearly in his head.

“Connor,” Hank says. Glancing up. Watching Connor watching him from beneath his lashes. “I really do love you. It’s stupid and-and-and cliche and I fuckin’ hate all that shit but...well. I don’t know.” He huffs again, frowning.

Connor’s entire expression seems to flex. Eyebrows arching, eyes narrowing, his throat moving just slightly, dragging in useless oxygen. “I love you too, Hank,” he says.

Something in Hank’s stomach loosens. He cups the stark nothingness of Connor’s mound. Drags his fingers along the featureless skin, same way he would—has—teased at labia, coaxing and gentle, just firm enough to tickle. But there is nothing to open beneath him, no lips no holes and no lubrication, no anything.

Connor wriggles and shudders anyway. Mouth opening over a virgin, liquid, “Oh.”

Oh.

One loaded syllable in the chamber. Everyone loses eventually at Russian Roulette.

Hank grins. “You feel that?” he asks. Circling his fingers, up almost to Connor’s belly then back down. A circuit. Endless. The buzzing beneath Connor’s skin, the constant current of him, seems localized higher than Hank is used to. Not where the clit or a cock would be, but off center, slightly to the right. Almost in line with his hips.

“I’m...I’m going to turn my skin off,” Connor says. Hank blinks. Nods, dumbly. He’s going to turn his skin off, of course.

Really though what he does is open a part of himself. Like he had with dead Traci, or all the others as he probed their memories. A part of the smooth, warm, elastic material seems to melt from beneath Hank’s hand. Leaving slightly cooler, slightly smoother white plastic in its wake. Connor’s frame. The bones of him.

And there, where the humming, buzzing, frantic desire seems greatest, there is a door. It unlatches with a pneumatic kind of hiss, quiet and intimate and for just the two of them. It’s larger than an asshole, no puckered, clinging flesh. Just a fist-sized hole in Connor’s frame, filled with wires and strange glowing little nodes.

Connor’s LED is blinding, yellow-white as Hank follows the careful urgings of his hands. Thumbing around the opening, dipping his fingers shallowly inside. Not enough room for his cock, too much already in there too needed for Connor’s functionality, and Hank’s back aches at the thought, trying to wrap his head around how they would even begin to work the angle.

“What’s it feel like,” Hank asks. Voice thick. Watching enraptured as his fingers slide into the space, moving delicate wires, tugging gently to make room for themselves. Everything is slightly viscous, like Connor’s spit. A Thirium residue blue and telling, like ghosts along his fingertips.

Been fingering the android? Everyone is gonna know.

The thought makes Hank’s mouth run dry.

“Overwhelming,” Connor says. Between his teeth. “I’m getting security warnings.” He takes a quick, indrawn breath, his knees shaking against Hank’s shoulders. “System malfunction alarms.” The hand not holding Hank’s wrist in a death-grip is clutching at his own chest. Right over his core. Hank remembers the blue, sickening light of it streaming from Connor’s chest as he shot the deviant in the television station.

“It hurts,” Connor says and Hank immediately starts to withdrawal, is only stopped from stopping when Connor’s fingers grip tighter. Hard enough to make the bones ache. Hard enough it has Hank hissing between his teeth. “No! Don’t stop, Hank, please I...I think it hurts because I love you so much. Too much. I don’t know how to...how to process all of it.”

Hank can feel himself blushing again. Anyone but Connor and the words would have him stopping, too uncomfortable. As it is, he hooks his fingers to brush against the inner walls of Connor’s port. They aren’t soft or giving like an organic body would be, but harshly defined. Expensive plastic and metal. Exoskeletal.

Connor twitches, shakes his head. The hand on his chest flexes, hard, if he were human the knuckles would be white from the pressure. Bloodless.

“Keep talkin’ to me, Connor.”

“Hank. I-I-I don’t have the protocol for this. My...” his voice seems to shatter, an overlay cutting through his tone. Tinny. A radio tuned just a little too sharply. Feedback like the old dial-up Internet sounds from Hank’s youth. Corruption in the recording. “I’m getting—“

Hank presses himself up onto his heels. Claims Connor’s lips with his own, shoving his tongue in, letting Connor taste it. Intimate and sloppy. His fingers move quicker, spreading, curling. Trying to touch every part he can, blunt pressure along what has turned out to be hyper-sensitive wiring. Plastic and metal hot and getting hotter against his fingers, singeing the skin.

Hank grunts, tugs his mouth back enough to breath out the sudden, increasing discomfort. He has to pull his hand back, has to, or risk losing a few a layers of skin to the burning. Surprisingly, Connor does not stop him, his finger dangle limply around Hank’s wrist.

Connor’s eyes are shut tight. Mouth open. He’s not breathing. Absurd as it is, the sight of Connor’s chest frozen and not moving is panic inducing, momentary shock. Until Hank remembers this is Connor and he doesn’t need to breath. Should be hard to forget that fact when there’s still blue goo coating Hank’s fingers. Clotting under his nails.

“Shit, Connor. You okay?” Hank asks.

Connor’s light is flickering between orange and red. Not a good sign in most cases, but in this one, Hank truly isn’t sure. He strokes his fingers down Connor’s thigh and waits to see what will happen.

He’s not normally a patient man.

The act is not easy.

But after a minute, Connor’s shoulders straighten. His eyes blink open. Shakily he takes a breath. And then another.

“You okay?” Hank tries again.

Connor meets his gaze. His eyebrows are flexed, considering. “I believe I am fine. Running a diagnostic now.”

“You scared the shit outta me just now, you know that?”

“It was merely an overheat. Too many...” Connor trails off, his lips curl into a devious smile. “Too many new variables. Pleasure and foreign body intrusions and all sorts of system warnings.”

“So not so good then?”

“On the contrary: it was amazing! I’ve never felt so out of control, Hank. So free. It was...” Connor licks his lips. “I’m glad I let you have your way even if I was—am not certain this should be our conventional means of getting off.”

Which is a whole lot of words to unpack, Hank is working through the sentence when Connor’s hands drag him up and onto the bed. Manhandling him onto his back.

Connor is dragging his boxers down his hips to leave them trapped halfway down his thighs before Hank can so much as get a word in edgewise. “You’re still hard,” Connor says, like he’s in awe. Wrapping his fingers around the head.

Gentle this time without being told.

“I’m glad. I was worried you may be turned off by how...how a different an experience it is. With me. I thought maybe I wouldn’t...wouldn’t arouse you.”

“Talking so much and you’re gonna do just that,” Hank threatens. The sentence carries little weight, said over a broken moan, pushing into Connor’s grip like its the only thing in this world.

Which should be a lonely thought.

Just Hank and his android the only two forever. It shouldn’t make him ache the way it does. Shouldn’t echo in his gut, make him gasp and twitch and leak across Connor’s palm.

Connor spits, noisy. It’s actually wet enough this time without it, but Hank gets the feeling Connor likes the way he flinches. Something teasing in the way Connor slows his strokes to really spread the Thirium around.

“This was-was supposed to be evening out the score,” Hank grunts. Even as he sinks a hand in Connor’s hair. Palm pressed flat to the LED on Connor’s temple.

“Looks like you’ll just have to owe me one still, Lieutenant.”

“I told you to call me Ha—aah fuck, Connor, fuck that’s so good—“

That terabyte of memory being put to good use. Connor swirls his tongue against the vein right under the crown, kissing at it noisily. Hank’s knees go to jelly. His stomach trembles.

The knot inside of him pulls as taut as it’s been, too tight and too aching and so so so close to just—

Breaking.

Hank shudders. His back arches. The heat in his gut spills outward, releasing and loosening. Making a mess of Connor’s lips and chin. Drenching him.

Smug, smiling with his eyes, Connor gathers the spend with his fingers, scoops it into his mouth. Makes a show of it.

Where he learned that, Hank doesn’t even want to know. Where it all goes...well, Hank doesn’t really want to know that either, but he can’t help the thought that without a means of waste disposal that it’ll get broken down into biomaterial, recycled for other use. Some part of Hank now a part of Connor forever.

“Are you satisfied?” Hank asks. Grumbling.

Connor grins. He fixes Hank’s boxers back onto his hips, modest, lifting Hank’s bulk like it is nothing. “Are you satisfied, Hank?”

Hank rolls his eyes. Knocks his foot against Connor’s uncovered side. The hole in him that he hasn’t bothered to reseal. Connor shudders. Sits further up, out of the way.

“I need my damn coffee,” Hank says.

“I told you to drink it before. It’s gonna be cold now you know. We were in here for seventeen minutes and thirty...five seconds. General consensus states that coffee is really best after only five or six minutes of cooling time.”

“Jesus, Connor. It’s not gourmet. I’ll throw a shot of whiskey in it and toss it in the microwave and it’ll be fine.”

Connor bites his lips. Finds his pants where they were dropped and pulls them on. One leg, than the other. Same as any human would. His balance only dips slightly, he braces a hand against the wall.

Hank is already moving back out into the kitchen. He finds a mug that looks relatively clean, fills it as Connor follows him into the room. Sumo greets them both with a headbutt to the knees, a sloppy kiss against Connor’s shins and arms as the android squats down to ruffle his ears.

Spoiling him fuckin’ rotten.

It’s not endearing in the least.

“You ever think maybe you drink too much, Hank?”

Apropos nothing. Connor’s fucking timing.

Hank is already holding the whiskey. The top is off and everything. He looks over to where Connor is still holding Sumo’s head between his hands. Connor’s big old innocent eyes. Connor’s damn frowning mouth.

“All the time,” Hank says. “Ain’t never had much of a reason to think about stopping, if that’s why you’re asking.”

Connor’s eyes flit from the bottle to Hank’s face and back. He resumes his quiet, brooding pats to Sumo’s shaggy fur.

“I think he has to go out,” Connor says. “I can take him for a walk if you want.”

It’s a mistake, a beginner’s misstep. At the word walk, Sumo springs forward, alert and attentive at the mention of his favorite past time. Hank chuckles, watching Connor try not to get bowled over by the weight of the Saint Bernard. A losing battle. Connor ends up on the floor while Sumo bounds to the front door.

“Well, now you gotta,” Hank says with a grin.

He watches, fondly, as Connor rights himself. Fetches his shirt from where it was draped haphazardly over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. One sleeve is inside out. Connor fixes it before pulling it on, fingers coaxing the material to untangle, all precise, careful movements. He touches the space where the bottom two buttons should be, sighs. Shakes his head at Hank.

Getting the leash on is less of an ordeal than usual. Sumo must realize Connor isn’t used to this. He holds very still while Connor tugs the collar around and latches it. Hank wonders idly how long that respect will last. He gives it under a week.

Connor gives Hank one last look as he opens the door.

God damn him. God damn it all.

Hank recaps the bottle, pushes it against the wall. The glass scrapes against the counter, the sound is hollow. Annoying. Hank rolls his eyes, sighing through his nose.

Weak to strays and puppy eyes and assholes who care too much about his well-being.

Connor’s feet shift. His fingers curl on the door frame. Sumo tugs at the leash, impatient. Poor guy. Hank looks back at Connor’s face. His blinking LED, yellow and white, yellow and blue.

Connor doesn’t say a word, he just smiles.

Hank catches a glimpse of that damn dimple as Connor closes the door behind him.

Hank drinks his coffee, only wincing a little at the bitter aftertaste. Burnt. Fucking burnt.

But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you guys think!


End file.
